Birth Right
by sailorgreywolf
Summary: Germania is failing after years of being an empire, and he must give his lands away to his sons. One has the right to the empire by birth, but will he receive it? Prussia-centered, no pairings of any sort
1. Birth Right

The fire in the hearth was burning low in the hearth as the servants rushed around, attempting to at least make their failing empire comfortable. Germania was laid in the bed, taking weak breaths that shook his massive body. Even under layers of furs, he was shaking. There was no chance of healing him or changing this fate; he was dying. He had outlasted Rome and all the other empires that had challenged him. But, no country was immortal. That was the simple truth of the matter and it was immutable. His sword and armor were laid out on a table as though he would spring up at any moment and seize them.

A lord, a vassal to one of the king's sons, approached Germania. The blonde man was awake and conscious, just weak. He spoke to the lord, one of the few who were not busy fighting in the savage civil war pulling the empire apart, and his voice rattled, "Send for my sons." He paused to pull in a shaking breath, before saying, "I have to bequeath my lands to them." It was this statement that made it perfectly clear that Germania knew he was dying. If he was ready to divide his lands like a mortal king, then there was truly no chance of his survival.

The lord said, obliging his empire, "I will send out knights immediately to inform them." He then asked a necessary qualification, the one that the entire court had been whispering about as the Empire visibly weakened, "All of them, sire?"  
Germania's blue eyes fixed on him questioningly as though he had not quite understood the question. Then he said, "Yes, all of them."

The mortal nodded, and turned and left the vast empire on his deathbed. In his mind, he wondered if the empire would even last long enough for a messenger to reach far-flung Poland to reach the son in exile.

* * *

Gilbert sat at a table, a flickering candle his only light source, running his finger under lines of text in a manuscript. His mind still stumbled over some of the words and letters, but he was making progress. The Hochmeister had told him that it was important to be literate in order to be able to read scripture. Life was supposed to be equal parts prayer and training to fight wearing the cross. But, one came far easier to Gilbert.

He felt antsy when he was forced to sit and work on manuscripts. He was aware that his sword was sitting on the other side of the room, and it would only take him a few minutes to grab it and go out to the training yard. Instead he was stuck here pawing over the complicated lettering of this manuscript. He got lost somewhere in the Latin and had to refocus his attention at the beginning of the page.

There was a sound at the door, which sounded like a hesitant knock. He grabbed a small knife that he kept with him on him at all the time. Then he reminded himself that here he was safe, here no one accused him of being a demon and sought to harm him. He put the knife back down again and stood, leaving the heavy manuscript behind on the table. When he opened the door, the young knight on the other side, who was wearing the black cross of the Teutonic order, took a subtle step backwards. Gilbert was used to this reaction when he was faced with new people. This man must have been from a different garrison because Gilbert didn't recognize him.

But, the knight had enough discipline to stop from reacting too extremely to the albino's appearance. He said, clearly following orders, "A knight from the king has arrived for you." Gilbert remembered how much he had shut himself off from the distant politics of his father's empire. He was not aware of who was king at this point in time. But he also knew that this order pledged itself to serving the empire, so when a message came from the king, they were obliged to listen.

This message was not actually from the king, though, if it was meant for Gilbert himself. That meant that it came directly from his father. That, in itself, was surprising. Since Gilbert had been sent to live here, his father had made no attempt to contact him until now. He glanced down at himself for only a moment to make sure that he looked at least decent. He was not dressed in formal garb, but what he was wearing was in order. He was too anxious to attempt to change into something more appropriate. So, he closed his door and followed the young knight through the stone halls to the chapel where there were two men standing, bathed by the light of multiple lit candles.

Gilbert recognized one as the Landmeister of Marienburg, the man who was currently responsible for him, but the other did not wear the black and white of the order. This mortal must be the one that had ridden from the heart of the Empire to speak to him. First, he inclined his head to his commanding officer and then did the same to the foreign knight. Without any hesitation, the foreigner said, "Your father is dying and has requested that you come back."

Gilbert's first reaction was to shake his head and take a step backwards. His father could not be dying. It was rare for countries to die, and it seemed completely unthinkable that Germania could succumb to internal fighting. However, he remembered what he had been taught. Part of combat was discipline, and that discipline could be applied in this situation. Not certain what he should feel or say, Gilbert said shortly, "I understand. Must we depart imminently?"

The man looked as though that had not been given any orders on that point. But, he responded, "Your father's health is failing, it is hard to say when he may succumb. It would be best to leave as soon as you are ready."  
The Landmeister cut in and said, "There are provisions that must be made tonight. I will send Gilbert to you in the morning."

The albino nodded, thankful for the time to attempt to deal with his own emotions. The commander then turned his attention to the other two mortals in the room. He spoke to the man that was subordinate; "This man has ridden for several days straight. Find him quarters." The discipline within the order was absolute. So, the messenger was immediately escorted away with the pretense of finding quarters.

But once they were alone, the mortal turned to Gilbert and said, "You took that news well."  
Gilbert responded as honestly as he could, "My father hasn't contacted me since he sent me here. And yet, when he is dying he sends for me. What am I supposed to think of that?"

He walked slowly towards the altar, not conscious of what he was doing. He had been told that he should go first to God in his times of doubt. This was certainly one of them. He should be saddened by the news that his father was dying. But, he was having trouble feeling anything about it. Perhaps it was because he only comprehended it in the abstract. His mortal commander followed him and said, "You must believe that he wishes to make a mends with you before he dies."

Gilbert nodded wished that he could believe that. He wanted to believe that his father regretted sending him into monastic exile, but that seemed to be a fantasy. He also wished he could feel resentment about this situation, but the truth was that he had found acceptance in this order like he never had anywhere else. Here very few people could gawk at him or judge for his appearance. In this monastery, he could finally avoid it all and learn to fight. Although he could resent what the choice meant about what his father thought of him, he could not begrudge the choice itself because it afforded him so much freedom.

He tried to voice these feelings, even if his adolescent mind did not quite understand them, "Why would he choose this moment? It doesn't make sense."  
The mortal responded sagely, attempting to sooth the fiery teen, "Men reveal feelings when they feel life slipping away that they never dare express when they have vitality and strength. You may be immortal, but your emotions are human."

Again, Gilbert wanted to accept this logic but it was hard. He looked directly at the cross on the altar, hoping that he could get some kind of divine guidance in this instance. As always, the cross remained silent. But, the mortal continued to talk to him, "You are his eldest son, aren't you?"  
Gilbert responded, but only out of conditioning, "Yes."  
The response elicited the information that Gilbert already knew, "Then you are heir to his empire."

Again, Gilbert only nodded. He knew this already, but he had denied himself those ambitions for so long. It was a sin to imagine that he could become an empire when his father died; it was pride and ambition. Moreover, he feared the idea because he had never been taught how to be an empire. Certainly, the knights had taught him about leadership. But that was leadership earned, not leadership inherited. But, now that he allowed the thought to grow, it was exciting that he could, at this young age, have power over most of central Europe.

The feelings dueled with each other in his head, allowing only one to have dominance at once. He said, trying to hide what he was actually feeling, "Tell me what I should do. I don't know what to do." The Landmeister took a step in front of him and put both of his hands on the albino's shoulders.  
He said, his tone stern, "Spend the night in prayer. Look to God for the answers. In the morning, depart and go to your father's side."

* * *

The light from many candles and a central fire lit Germania's room as he sat up, only aided by a pair of servants. His body was far too weak now for him to lift himself. The civil war that had finally done enough damage that his once strong body could no longer support itself. He was very rarely alone anymore, with all the retainers he required to continue living. He wondered if Rome had suffered this way during his own fall. He had so easily taken land from Rome to forge his own empire, and only now did he wonder what pain he had caused.

The door opened and a young blonde boy entered, guided by his own retainer. As soon as he saw his father, he ran forward to the bedside, ignoring all rules of decorum and order. He cried out, "Vati!" His cry made it clear how distressed he was seeing his father in this state. Germania extended his hand to his son, attempting to convey some comfort.

The boy took the large hand in both of his own as he said, "Are you really dying, Vati?" The boy was attempting to hold in his emotions, but he was young and they were pouring out. As his father slowly nodded, tears began to roll down his round cheeks. He wasn't ready to be without a father. He wasn't ready to be alone.

The door opened again, this time admitting an older blonde boy, who looked immediately to his younger brother. He walked over to the young boy and put his hand on his shoulder. He said, speaking not yet to his father, "Be strong, Max."  
The younger of the two responded immediately and tearfully, "But, Vash, I don't want Vati to die!"

Vash only tightened his grip on his brother's shoulder and said, "We all have to face this eventually." Hardily a teen yet, Vash nonetheless showed maturity beyond his years. He was as he always had been, quiet but strong. Germania surveyed his sons. They were both exceptional in their own ways, but they were both young to take on the burden of being responsible for such vast lands. His mind had been occupied recently with nothing but the inheritance of his sons. He had already made the decision of who would inherit his title of the Holy Roman Empire. But he had to consider all his sons. There were outside forces to consider and he had to leave his sons with enough strength to defend themselves.

The door opened again, this time the entire room fell silent. All eyes went directly to Gilbert. The mortals had never seen him before, so they stared at him. Gilbert felt all the eyes on him as he walked into the room, but he was expecting it. What he was not expecting was the way that both of his brothers glared at him as though he was interrupting something intimate. He was tempted to pull of hood of his white cloak over his head and leave again.

But, he wasn't here for his brothers' approval. He focused his attention on his father, who looked like a shadow of himself. His blonde hair was still braided, but it looked unkempt. There were very prominent dark circles under his eyes as well. Germania's blue eyes found the albino and a look passed over his face that was completely unreadable. For a moment, Gilbert wondered if the look could be approval, or possibly the opposite. He decided to withhold any judgment or reaction until his father spoke.

He already wanted to flee back to his monastery where he could go to the training yard and take out all of his feelings with a sword. This was not his arena and he felt completely out of place. But, he was here for a reason and he couldn't let himself forget that. He still stopped just behind his brothers, consciously putting himself on the periphery.

Once Gilbert stopped walking, his father started talking. He was taking halting breaths between each word he said, "Now that you're all here. There is the matter of inheritance." Gilbert found himself wondering why it was even necessary for his brothers to be there. The laws of inheritance were clear. The eldest son should inherit the title, even if land was given to the younger. It should be a clear case. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as he waited for the inevitable proclamation.

Germania continued, "I have thought hard about this. Vash will inherit the lands between the land of the Franks and the Italian peninsula." He paused and Gilbert felt anxiety in his throat. He knew what his right was, but he still felt uncertain. His father continued speaking, "Maximilian will inherit my title and become the Holy Roman Empire."

Gilbert felt the air go out of his lungs as his tearful younger brother, his youngest brother, take the title that should belong to him. He had only begun to wish for the title, only to have it stolen away from him. He could do nothing but stand there. He didn't even hear the words as his father gave his brothers his blessing and bid them leave the room. Gilbert refused to leave.

He was owed something, anything. It was not conceivable that he could be left with only the small spit of land along the Baltic Sea that he currently had. He was certain he had been told to leave the room, but he didn't care. He waited for his obedient brothers to leave before finally speaking, glaring at his father as he did so, "What am I to be left with, Father?"

Germania's eyes hardened and he responded with an ire that mirrored Gilbert's, "You will do as you've been doing. Any land that belongs to the Teutonic order belongs to you." Frustrated, Gilbert turned and started walking around the room. He loved the land he had, the freedom to be a knight if he wished. But, he still felt cheated.

He finally asked the question that had been on his mind for a while. It could explain this situation, but he didn't want it to be true. Not daring to look directly at his father, he said, "Am I bastard born? Is that why you sent me away?" He had been dwelling on this thought for more than a decade. He knew that it was common practice to put a lord's bastard in a monastic order to hide their existence. He didn't know the truth about his parentage, and with his father dying it was his only chance to ask.  
Germania seemed completely unsurprised by the question, but Gilbert could only judge by the sound of his voice, "No, you are true born."

As Gilbert turned, ready to ask another question, Germania raised one shaking hand. He said, counting on the albino's silence, "I should have known that my pagan ways would not be forgotten."  
Gilbert interrupted, tired of listening to stories without any explanation, "I do not want to hear about your conversion. I have learned about God in the monastery you sent me to."

All he got for his outburst was his father's scornful gaze. Then, as he seethed, Germania continued, "Then you know He does not forgive. I sinned, I killed in the name of pagan gods, and I betrayed Romulus. God punished me by marking my first born." Suddenly, Gilbert understood, this was still about his appearance. Even his father couldn't see past it.

He couldn't form a response; the empty feeling in his chest was too strong. Instead, he took a small step backwards and shook his head. Apparently addressing Gilbert's reaction, Germania said, "You do know how you look, don't you?" This time Gilbert was sure to respond with anger. He was well aware that his hair was white and his eyes were red, he had been told and he had seen his reflection in still water. He had seen the way mortals stared and him. He had seen the way superstitious peasants would whisper and turn away. He was constantly reminded what he looked like and he had no illusions about how abnormal it was.

He said, his voice cracking as he spoke, "I know what I look like! Do you really think this is a punishment from God?" He gestured to his own face in an attempt to convey what he meant. His father nodded slowly, almost like the action pained him. He looked like he wanted to speak again, but Gilbert took a step forward. Rage had overtaken all other emotions. He spoke, his voice still struggling to keep up with his emotions, "I didn't choose this!"

He was too angry to even feel heartbroken, or betrayed. The only emotion he felt was anger. Unable to continue to stand in this room, to even be in proximity to the man who had denied him. He stormed to the door and slammed it, saying as he did so, "Keep your empire, I'll get one on my own."


	2. Child King

_A/N: This oneshot was heavily inspired by the song Child King by Abney Park. It is not a songfic, but I would recommend listening to the song while reading_

* * *

Snow was falling in slow scattered flakes as the bright yellow banners of the Holy Roman empire appeared at the gates of Königsberg. Gilbert could just make out the bright color through the flakes. He put his hand on the pommel of his sword, a bastard blade that had ended the life of many men. Those flags had never appeared at his gate, not even when his father was still alive. The proud banners of the empire never came this far into the Eastern frontier. This was one of the farthest outposts of the empire.

It was puzzling. The fanfare seemed far too much for just a messenger, so Gilbert couldn't help but wonder what the reason was behind this strange display. Had his brother finally come to reconcile after so many years of silence? That seemed very unlikely. Maximilian had proved throughly inept so far in his role as empire. Their father may have been a heavy handed tyrant, but he had at least kept order better than this. Under his younger brother, every province of the Holy Roman empire had exercised their own autonomy.

Gilbert did not begrudge it; he had prospered in the absence of a central authority. He did not wield his sword for a distant emperor. He fought for the brothers he had at his side, and they did the same for him. Even now, he knew some of his order were preparing to defend him if this visit should turn hostile. There was comfort in that.

The albino adjusted his cloak against the cold wind which always seemed to blow in off the North Sea. It was not yet high winter, but the weather had taken a frigid turn. If he believed in such things, Gilbert would say that this was a very poor omen. He turned and descended from the ramparts, where he had been watching the imperial procession draw nearer. The wind buffeted his back and he took sure steps down the stone steps. He may as well make his brother feel welcome, even though he doubted this encounter would be pleasant. There had been nothing but silence between them since Germania died.

When he entered the great hall, there was already a large fire filling the space with warmth from the wood floors to the spacious buttressed ceilings. The heavy wood door would keep the howling winds of the North sea out. There would be a comfortable feeling in the hall, at the very least. The cold that surrounded would be kept out. It would only be a matter of time now before he saw his little brother again. This would be the first that they had been face to face since their father's death. Gilbert had spent the time making his mind keener and his sword sharper, one with books the other with blood. But, he had no idea what the young empire had been doing. He was vaguely aware that both Austria and Spain had been exerting influence on him, but it meant very little to Gilbert.

As he contemplated the reason behind this strange turn of events, the albino removed his fox fur lined gloves and placed them on a table. The gloves were the product of his own hand. There was no finery here but what you hunted and sewed yourself. He then untied the cloak at his neck and hung it over the chair at the head of the same table.

As he turned to inquire about how close his brother was, the doors of the citadel swung open, admitting a young man and a small party of retainers. There were only a few armed knights among them, few enough to only be a precaution for the journey. This was a sure sign that he meant this to be a peaceful visit. Gilbert took in the sight of Holy Rome before saying anything. For a young man, he looked surprisingly haggard. His face no longer had the light of exuberent youth. But the child king's clothing was fine. An ermine cloak protected him from the cold and there was gold in the cross he wore around his throat.

Gilbert's own was made of iron, but he had earned it with his own blood. He was an ordaned knight in a monastic order, his brother only had the name "Holy" because it was given to him. As the boy's eyes lighted upon the albino, he cleared his throat and spoke, "Brother, I have come to seek your assistance." His tone was commanding, but his voice was still that of a child. It could not possibly illicit fear from anyone.

Gilbert was struck by how brazen and forced this was. Did he not even deserve a familial greeting? However different their worlds may be, they were still brothers. It would be more fitting to greet him as a brother rather than a vassal. He responded in kind, "What could the mighty Holy Roman Empire need from me? You haven't needed me for hundreds of years." He saw the young man nervously swallow. They were still on opposite sides of the huge table that the order used for strategy, but Gilbert could see every detail of his brother's reaction.  
It was clear that the boy was trying to carry the lofty weight of his own authority, "Surely you have heard of the heresies that are spreading like a plague in my territories. Even in this wilderness you must know about Martin Luther. I wish to uproot this weed, but Saxony will not give him up. As a knight of Christendom, you must assist me."

Holy Rome spoke of duty as though he knew the weight of it. But, he did not. He was young and pampered. He had inherited a title without ever having to work for it. Gilbert knew his duty well, he wore the callouses and scars of it. What could Holy Rome know about defending the Church? He had not fought against the heresies of the patriarch. He had not felt his life slip away under ice only to be delivered by a divine hand.

But, one statement was true: Gilbert had heard of Martin Luther. A copy of the thesis had made it this far East. He had read it personally, and it seemed to him that if the church in Rome was as corrupt as Luther claimed, it deserved to be purged of its debauchery. He had spent his formative years painstakingly copying scripture, and he knew exactly how wrong transgressions were. If priests in Rome were indulging in adultery and pluralism, they deserved to be called out on their debauchery. Gilbert was far removed from Rome, so these allegations were some of the first he had heard. But, Luther didn't seem like he was wrong. His own life was as austere and as reliant on prayer as any Martin Luther advocated. He would not pledge himself or any of his brothers to a campaign he thought unjust.

Gilbert said, "I have heard of Martin Luther. From what I understand, he does not speak against God. He speaks against the practices of corrupt men. Tell me, brother, why I should lift a finger against him?" The boy's blue eyes widened. They were the exact same deep blue as his father. The last time Gilbert had looked in eyes that color, it had been with rage. Holy Rome straightened his spine and pushed his chest out. He looked like a small bird attempting to ruffle his feathers. But, even ruffled, a canary was not an eagle.  
He said, "You have a duty to me as your liege lord."

The albino felt a smile on his own lips. He let his hand casually return to the pommel of his sword. Words he would have held in front of his father spilled freely from his lips, "You speak of duty, but you never seemed to know your own. It was your duty to either summon me to pay homage or to come here to allow me to do so. You did not, so you are not my liege lord."

Holy Rome made a flustered squeak and took a couple steps back, closer to his knights. His hands tightened in the white fur lining of his cloak. All semblance of authority had left his voice as he stumbled over the words, "I-I didn't know." Then, seeming to remember his position, he added, "I will take your oath now and atone for my carelessness." For that single moment, the albino felt regret at his brusqueness. He remembered that they at least shared half of the same blood. But his brother's return to the formality of a lord hardened his own resolve.

He squared his own stance and tightened his hand on the sword. The albino said, "It isn't yours to have anymore. Since you chose to deprive me of my benefice by you, I looked elsewhere. A knight needs a lord, if only in name. I gave my vow of fealty to Felix." The other looked completely flustered. He took a couple more steps backwards in an uneasy retreat towards the doors.  
Holy Rome spoke, placing his own hand at the gilded, gaudy sword at his hip, "You lie! I know you have attacked Poland before."

Gilbert clenched his teeth to stop himself from immediately responding to the incendiary accusation. He was a knight and he lived his life by the code of chivalry and honor. He did not lie on principle. All he had said thus far was true, but so was what his brother had said. Gilbert had turned against his liege lord when he had thought he had to. He said, "Hold your tongue, Holy Rome. I live by my honor while you indulge in your wealth and privilege. You have no right to besmirch my honor. Yes, I have fought with Felix when he did not delivered on what he promised to me as my liege. I require enough land to maintain my order, as any monastic order does. If Felix does not give me that, I chastise him for it. I want no more than what I am owed."

Gilbert could hear his own raised voice echoing off the walls. It's echoes made it into a fearful chorus, accusing Holy Rome with every syllable. He could not remember the last time he had sounded this enraged outside of battle. T His younger brother, who had little right to call himself a lord, was standing before him calling his honor, the only treasure he was allowed, into question.

But, he took a step forward and realized that there was still a quiver in the boy's lower lip. The Holy Roman empire was still a child quaking in his boots at the sight of a a knight with a sword. He had aged since they had last met, but not enough to be a man in his own right. Gilbert had forgotten it when he had been speaking to his brother. He had seen the old resentments and the threat of outside tyranny reflected onto the slight form of his brother, who had not asked for the position he now held. The insults had galvanized him, but he thought it better to give the boy another choice, if only for the sake of their shared blood. Was it not chivalrous to extend a lord's curtesy?

As these thoughts occurred to Gilbert, Holy Rome pulled his cloak tighter around him. He spoke, his voice shaking, "I have come to you to request assistance as is owed to me as an empire. If you will not give it to me, then I will leave." This admission of defeat gave Gilbert a chance to atone for his rudeness. He could not offer his assistance against Martin Luther, on that he was firm, but he could stop his little brother from leaving.  
He spoke, "The storm will only worsen tonight; it is no weather to travel, especially for you. You are soft from your Southern summers. I can give you and your men shelter for the night."

There was a shade of confusion in the other's blue eyes as he heard the words. For a moment, he looked uncertain how to interpret the change of heart. But, the look was soon replaced by one of relief. He responded, "Thank you, brother." He tripped over the familial title, as though this was the first time he had spoken it genuinely and his tongue was unused to it.  
He continued, "I would like to dine with you so that I may attempt to change your mind."

Gilbert anticipated the request, but was uncertain whether he wanted to grant it. He did not want to be pestered about a decision he had already made. But, he had not spoken to his brother in decades, centuries even. This could be a valuable chance to make up the lost time. Perhaps even to mend the rift that their father had cleaved between them. With some reservations, Gilbert replied, "I can grant you that, but do not expect much."

The albino then waved one of the lesser knights that stood around the edge of the hall, beckoning him. The man approached with quiet discipline, saying only, "My lord?" It was only a perfunctory title to explain Gilbert's importance in the order. He had grown used to being called lord, even begun to enjoy it. Without his father's help or backhanded gold, he had achieved status of his own. He may not be an empire like his little brother, but everything he had had been earned.

He answered, "Find rooms for the emperor's envoys. Then inform the Grand Meister that I will not be dining with him tonight. Once you have done that, instruct the kitchens to prepare something rich. I doubt our usual fare will satisfy my brother." The orders rolled off his tongue with a comfortable cadence. Years of learning that deference had no place on the battlefield had made giving orders natural. The boy who waited for his father's permission for every action was gone now. He turned back to Holy Rome, who was looking at him with a strange new respect. Then he said, "Is there anything else you would like to request for the night?" Holy Rome shook his head in resolute silence, understanding at last that he was no longer in his own domain.

* * *

There were what seemed to Gilbert to be an inordinate number of candles lit in a spacious room, where food was sprawled across the table. As Gilbert had instructed, the fare was sumptuous. He wondered if the larder had been raided too heavily. There was still winter to be considered and he had hoped to spend it eating more than just course bread and mutton. There was little to be hunted when the darkest winter set in and trade was expensive. Gilbert felt the miserly pang in his gut again as he surveyed the roasted foul, fine bread, and ale.

But, he kept his silence and took a seat on one side of the table. This did nothing to lessen the resentment he felt at the thought of his younger brother. He knew less that this would have drawn judgmental looks. How easy it was for a young man who had known nothing but pampering at the hands of the Hapsburgs to turn his nose up at luxury. Gilbert attempted to restrain the feeling in the name of familial harmony.

He did not touch the food. He would not until his brother joined him. Holy Rome was late and treading dangerously on his brother's curtesy. Perhaps, Gilbert mused, there was more tolerance for tardiness in the Austrian court. He doubted it though. The representation of Austria had seemed to be rather careful for a courtier. They had met years ago when Gilbert had been passing through Hapsburg territory. Roderich had been courteous and careful, even if he was a little odd. There had been word long ago that the boy had grown into a kingdom while Gilbert continued to work for his own survival. It was futile to spend his time thinking of the unfairness of it; there was nothing to change it.

The thought was accompanied with the groan of the hinges. The albino turned his head to look at his brother as the boy walked in. He noted that Holy Rome had changed into another set of clothing, this one even finer than his traveling clothes. Gilbert had only taken off his outer layers. Here there was little utility in Flemish cloth or Neapolitan silk, even if it had been feasible to trade for them. Gilbert had never felt the need for anything different.

As chivalry dictated, Gilbert stood. He did not speak, not quite yet. Holy Rome did not return the favor. He said, "I am grateful for this chance. I hope that I will be able to convince you to aid me." The idea that Holy Rome thought he possessed enough theological knowledge to persuade him was grating. Gilbert sat down wordlessly. He tersely waited for Holy Rome to sit.

The blonde looked over the set table with a distinct sense of disdain. He said only, "Has it been a hard autumn?" Gilbert took the sentence as a veiled insult. Even if it was meant to be simple conversation, it sounded like a judgment on the food.  
Gilbert replied, making little effort to hide his irritation, "No, the yields were good. I'm rather grateful for it."

He watched as darkness seemed to creep over Holy Rome's face. The blonde seemed to be seeking for something else to say. So, Gilbert decided to fill the silence. He said, "We should eat before the food gets cold." Then, without waiting for his brother's reply, he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. Usually, he would mutter the words of the prayer under his breath in Latin. But, with his brother so close and, presumably, able to understand Latin, he could not risk it.

He spoke the usual words of gratitude. But he also prayed for the patience to be able to deal with whatever provocation Holy Rome was going to offer him. His nature was forced in battle and was volatile. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the other was staring at him, the candlelight dancing over his face. The expression was difficult to read until Holy Rome decided to voice the words on the tip of his tongue, "Your life is so pious."

Gilbert could not quite understand the shock he heard in the boy's voice. He was a knight of a Holy Order. Naturally his life was pious, even if that was all it was. He only said, "Did you expect anything different?" He could hear the anger rise in his own voice again. To distract himself, Gilbert reached out and tore a drumstick off of the fowl and then reached for a chunk bread. The physical action of tearing off pieces of meat and bread alleviated his anger for the moment. While he worked, Holy Rome spoke again, "Of course not, your faith is just different than what usually see."

The comment seemed intentionally vague. For a moment, Gilbert wondered what really lay beneath it. His mind turned back to what he had read of Martin Luther. The man claimed that the clergy in Rome was ignorant and corrupt and this slip in his brother's demeanor seemed to indicate that this was the truth. The thought only affirmed Gilbert's decision to keep his knights firmly where they were.

They both lapsed into silence again while the albino tore pieces of meat off of the bone. Holy Rome finally broke the silence again, "Why didn't you stay to mourn our father?" The authority in his voice, or what had been masquerading as authority, disappeared. There was even a quaver of tears. He sounded like a little boy asking for an explanation. Gilbert did not feel particularly ready to explain it to his brother, who had never had a cross word with their father. He said, trying to hide the truth of the last words he had spoken to his father, "To you he was a father and a king. To me he was just a king. It was not my place to stay."

The truth was that he did not want to stay and meet the eyes of his brothers, who saw him as nothing but a demon and a usurper. He did not want to be present to see the man who had stripped him of a title that rightfully belonged to him laid to rest. Holy Rome would not understand the bitterness that Gilbert still felt at the thought of his father. He hoped that the answer would be enough to placate his brother. But, unfortunately, Holy Rome immediately said, "He was your father too. He gave you this."

The boy made a sweeping gesture as though he meant the very ground that they stood on. Gilbert tightened one of his hands into a fist. He had won this land himself; all his father had given him was a small spit of land along the Baltic sea. He did not owe anything to his father. He ate to stop himself from speaking. Hopefully, his brother would take the silence as a sign to change subjects. The boy picked up a piece of bread and looked at it doubtfully. Then, seeming to search for his words, he said, "If I asked you to come back for a more joyous occasion, would you heed me?"

The question seemed odd and Gilbert was at a loss to respond. He responded, not thinking of the motivation behind the question, "I would. But that is not what we are discussing." They were the only words he could muster. Was there a pertinent reason Holy Rome was asking? There was no joy in speaking of Martin Luther for either of them.

Gilbert was not left in suspense for long. The blonde smiled for the first time since he had arrived. Dimples appeared in his round cheeks. He said, "I am planning to ask a lady for her hand in marriage. I know we haven't been close, but I want my entire family to be there." He stopped speaking for only a moment before continuing with an even wider smile, "Please say you'll be there."

The boy was glowing from the excitement radiating from him. Gilbert felt a strange disconnection from it. He had never thought of marriage. His own position required a vow of chastity, but he had never thought of breaking it. His brother's excitement belonged in some distant, glittering world that Gilbert was not privy to. It was like placing ones hand over a candle but not feeling the warmth. He asked, because it was the only polite question that occurred to him, "Who is your intended?"

He doubted the answer would mean anything to him, but it seemed correct to ask. As he expected, a blush mounted his brother's cheeks and the boy quickly said, "She's the granddaughter of Rome. Can you imagine it? The wounds between our families finally healed."

Suddenly, Gilbert understood. This wasn't about marriage at all; it was about intimidation. If Holy Rome was able to marry an heir to the remainder of the Roman empire, he would have claim to almost all of Europe. He would have the power to command vast armies. With the Spanish emperor he currently had and that kind of land, there was no possibility of resisting him.

Gilbert clenched his jaw. Why had he thought that his brother actually wanted to speak about anything else? This was ambition hidden in the empty news of frivolity. He replied, "If you really cared about healing wounds, you would not have come to me to demand compliance. You are no less a tyrant than our father. Marry your Roman bride. Take your Spanish army to Saxony. Take whatever foreign help you need to turn against your own kin. I will take no part in it."

Holy Rome went pale. He said, his voice breaking as it crescendoed, "I didn't ask for this! I want to live with all of you, but no one will listen to me! I hoped that you would help me because we are brothers. Why do you treat me like an enemy?" Gilbert pushed himself away from the table and stood. He would take no more of this. He had made his stance clear enough. His own anger was reaching a boil and threatening to spill over.

He said, avoiding his brother's question, "You have never treated me as a brother." He was not the one who had chosen to keep silence over the years. He wanted to walk out of the room, to leave Holy Rome standing there. But, he did not move. Leaving felt too much like surrender. Holy Rome stood as well, but he did not have the same confidence. Holy Rome raised his voice, "I am still your lord! I deserve your loyalty! If you deny me, I will turn on you once I deal with Saxony."

The threat hung in the air, empty and desperate. But, it showed his resolve. He had, as Gilbert had suspected, never cared to fix the family. He was another tyrant not yet strong enough to enforce his will. The albino's temper broke free from its restraints. He snapped, "You don't deserve anything! I am your older brother and I should wear your crown."  
The blonde slowly shook his head and said, "Our father did this to both of us. It was up to us to fix it. The next time we meet, I will be a conquerer putting you in your place. I hope you look back on this as the moment you failed to do what you should have as my brother." He then walked out, letting the door close lightly behind him.

Gilbert felt his absence like an unspoken reproach in the air. He had won his neutrality, but it was hollow. He was not scared of the threats. No matter what he said, Holy Rome could not afford to risk a war with Poland over land that had little worth. But as he sat and stared at the, practically untouched, food, he felt as though he had lost something.


	3. Imperial Ambitions

The news of Napoleon's provocations came on the hooves of a single rain-drenched messenger who had ridden straight from Paris to Vienna, confiscating horses along the way. He frantically explained that England and France were close to blows, and France's new emperor seemed ready and willing to engage in war. The Holy Roman Empire listed to the news and watched the look of determination pass over his Austrian guardian's face. He knew the thoughts that were crossing the man's mind; they were the same ones that were on his. Wars in Europe never remained the business of two countries. Many of the squabbles about relatively little land had turned into wars involving several powers. There was no reason for this one to be any different; Austria already had reason to enter on the side of the British. His ire had been raised by French victories against him when he had intervened in the ill-conceived French revolution.

For his own part, Holy Rome was tied to whatever decision Austria made. The Hapsburg king was also the Holy Roman Emperor, and it was the empire's duty to abide his will. But, his feelings about it also crossed into the realm of the personal. This commoner who did not even have a drop of blue blood had dared to name himself Emperor, when that title was reserved for his leader. Certainly the Russian monarch also used it, but that was a different faith and a different ambition. For reasons he could not entirely explain, Holy Rome felt like the act of crowning Napoleon emperor was a threat to him directly. He could not allow another Emperor to exist on the continent; it would undermine what little authority he possessed. It was already clear that his brothers and cousins were not likely to obey him, despite the title he had been given by his father. If he ever wanted to truly fill the role his father had left him, then he could not let this usurpation stand.

But, from the way that Austria's eyes flashed at the news of Napoleon's coronation, he knew that there was no need to plead his case to his guardian. As soon as he ordered the messenger to be fed and housed, Austria turned to Holy Rome. When their eyes met, it was clear that their thoughts were the same. When the Austrian walked over to him with graceful rage in every step, Holy Rome waited patiently. The first words Austria spoke seemed incredibly obvious, "This cannot continue." The blonde simply nodded, not certain if the other even cared about his opinion. Austria continued only glancing at Holy Rome, "I have been patient with Francis thus far, but he has gone too far. If he starts a war with England, I will fight him without a second thought."

It seemed like he was talking to himself, save the fact that he glanced at his young companion every so often. It was not unfamiliar behavior. Spain had acted much the same way when his king was emperor. These great powers with their armies and their prestige cared little for the opinion of a young man who had been thrust into their care. Holy Rome had no power to impose his will on them. If his father was still alive, he would have been deeply ashamed of his youngest son. Had he wished to object to the war, and he did not, he would have been ignored. He asked instead, "And will I go with you to France?"  
Austria nodded and said, "Naturally. I will need the support your name brings."

The question of support seemed like an odd one. France had been able to win thus far, but he had just emerged from a revolution. It should not be hard to defeat him and place his new ruler back in the proper place. Holy Rome felt a sudden stabbing uncertainty in his gut. If Austria thought he might need support, what kind of war would this be? It was unusual for Austria to show any kind of hesitation or weakness. He was the true empire and Holy Rome was here to provide the title he wore like an overlarge mantle. The unease settled on him, and he was tempted to shake it off. But, Austria continued talking to him, "You should pack what you need for a campaign. We will be ready to move at a moment's notice. I doubt Napoleon will hold off on declaring war on England."

Holy Rome nodded. He understood that this was an order, though it was disguised as a suggestion. He did not mind though. The conversation was just an affirmation of what they both knew. War would come, and Austria would put France back in his place. Holy Rome did not even flatter himself to think that he would be a part of that victory.

Though he had taken up swords play, his skill remained remarkably poor. It made little sense; his father had been the greatest warrior in Europe and his older brother was famed for his prowess in battle. Austria had even made the passing comment after seeing him practice that he looked nothing like Prussia, who had already been a prodigy at his age. It had laid another failure on the mounting evidence that he was a disappointment to his father. He sometimes wondered if he had been forced to learn instead of doing it at his leisure, like Prussia had, he would be better.

Austria turned and walked away, indicating that he was done dictating. Holy Rome was left standing in the hall considering his own position. He would go with Austria to France and very little would change. An Austrian victory would not give him influence or real power. He had been a shadow behind other empires for so long that he had let go of the hope of reestablishing the authority his father had. But, there was a new feeling in his gut that was not abating. He sighed to himself and decided that it came from France encroaching on the titles that rightly belonged to him.

The way back to his own chambers was short. He pushed open the heavy gilded door by himself though a servant hurried to his side to do it. This coddling and pampering was slowly becoming resentful to Holy Rome. He felt like he had become indulgent and weak fed on Viennese luxury. As he walked into his own chambers, he waved away the servants who usually waited on him. Once he was alone, he glanced around at the things around him. It dawned on him that he was not even certain what should be brought on a campaign. Usually he ordered for his things to be made ready. He let out another sigh. He would do it later.

A soft voice sounded behind him, "Holy Rome?" He turned to see a familiar set of hazel eyes looking at him, His heart leaped into his throat at the sight of Italy. He tried to smile through all of his dour thoughts. But, Italy's usually sunny face was decidedly sullen. The Italian spoke again, now that it was clear that Holy Rome was paying attention, "I overheard Austria talking about war with France. Is it true? Are you going with him?"

There was concern in her voice and it was unusual. Holy Rome felt it compound his own feeling of uncertainty. But, he did not want to worry his sensitive little friend, so he replied, "It is true. But I should not be gone long."  
The other took a tentative step into the room, and seemed to hesitate before saying, "I don't want you to go."  
The short statement struck at Holy Rome's heart. Though the Italian had said relatively little, the tone was enough. Instead of any kind of anger, he responded with confusion, "Why, Feli?"

Holy Rome took a step toward Italy, not certain if he was being too forward. He longed to take the other in his arms, but he didn't want to scare her away. For some reason, Italy seemed to find him intimidating. Italy looked directly at him and said, "Every time you and Austria leave, I'm alone here. I don't like it." There was a pause before Italy continued, not giving Holy Rome the proper time to think and respond, "And when you leave I worry that you won't come back."

The words made Holy Rome's heart race. He felt a slight heat in his cheeks as he blushed at the thought that Italy worried for him. He stepped even closer, so that they were close enough to suggest affection. Italy's concern, though profoundly touching, was misplaced. If, by some miracle, they lost this war, then it would be no different than the thirty years war; Holy Rome would be diminished yet again, but he would return. It was the pattern of European wars. With each war he lost, Holy Rome's name commanded even less respect. He said, speaking to Italy in the most soothing tone he could summon, "You don't need to worry. I will come back."

Italy came even closer, her hazel eyes even wider. It was so precious how emotive her face was. She was unguarded in a way that was so uncommon. All of the empires around him were guarded, and the change was always refreshing. Italy only spoke once she was close, "Promise me that you will come back. Make a promise that you can't break."

The earnestness warmed Holy Rome to the core. He wanted to make the promise so that Italy would not doubt his intention to return. He hoped that when he returned he would have the courage to ask for her hand in marriage. He had intended to for many years, but when he faced Italy with the idea, the words to explain that it was about his feelings and not territorial gain. Italy should not think that his affection was only a way to reconstruct the Roman empire. Holy Rome pondered how to make a promise so that it was completely sincere. Finally, he lighted upon an idea.

He pulled off one of the rings that he wore on his hand and extended it to Italy. The one he chose was very old. It was gold and red jasper with an eagle stamped into the surface of the jasper. As he placed it softly in the palm of Italy's hand, he said, "This ring was my father's. Your grandfather gave it to him as a sign of friendship. He gave it to me when he died."

Holy Rome remembered when this ring had been brought to him and he had known that his father was dead. It had been the sign that he was meant to be the successor of Rome, the next empire of Europe. Italy stared at the the ring in her palm with the purest sense of wonder. Holy Rome, feeling unusually bold, folded Italy's hand over the ring, "This ring is very special to me. Look after it until I come back. I promise I will."

Without any warning, Italy threw both of her arms around Holy Rome. The sudden hug made an even more aggressive blush take to his cheeks. Italy said, still holding him tight, "Thank you, Max. I wish I had something to give you so you won't forget me." The blonde slowly returned the hug, realizing that this was acceptable; Italy would not shy away from him.  
He responded with the first thought that came to his mind, "I could never forget you."

Hesitantly, Italy pulled away and said, "Is Prussia allying with Austria?" The question hit a sore nerve, though it was probably not intended. Why did everyone seem to think that Holy Rome needed his older brother to fight. Even if he felt like it was necessary for Prussia to assist in this war, he dared not ask his brother for help. Prussia thought he had did not deserve his position, and had made that abundantly clear the last time they had spoken. And by Lutheranizing, Prussia had cut off any authority that Holy Rome had over him. It still hurt to think about. Holy Rome had only ever had the most sincere of intentions towards his brother, but they had come to nothing. He had not chosen to be his father's successor, and often thought that there must have been more happiness in his brother's monastic life than in all of his trinkets and luxuries. There was a gulf between them that even the best of intentions could not bridge. If he had to face Prussia on campaign, then it would be nothing but discomfort. It was almost comforting to know that his brother's grudge would keep him from intervening.

He took a deep breath before replying to Italy's innocent question. The anger had to subside before could respond. He said, "No. We won't need his help." Italy nodded and looked Rome bit his lower lip, contemplating whether this was a gesture of disappointment. But, Italy looked back at him and wordlessly pressed their lips together. The blonde was caught completely off-gaurd, so he made an undignified squeak. But the feeling was sweet, and he pulled Italy closer. It was a short kiss, but it was all that Holy Rome wanted in the moment.  
When Italy pulled away, she said, "Remember me by that and come back." Holy Rome smiled to himself and nodded.

* * *

The war came much as Austria predicted it would: France's aggression quickly brought both Austria and England into the fray, followed by the Russian emperor, who had pledged his support to the allied effort to dislodge France. Russia had even arrived himself with his emperor. This war was becoming far larger than it should, and Holy Rome thought every night of the promise he had made to Italy. He had said he would be back soon, but that now looked very unlikely. Vienna had been captured, and Austria seemed deeply shaken by the loss. His capital was currently occupied, but he had not dared to strike back until he had Russian reinforcement. It was strange to Holy Rome to see Austria in this state.

Usually the title of Holy Roman Emperor fell to the most powerful monarch in Europe, and Austria's emperors had been exactly that for many years. But Napoleon's voracity and skill seemed completely unmatched. Though it was largely hidden from Holy Rome, he knew the desperation that was growing. He had even overheard Russia and Austria talking about the necessity of recruiting another ally, if one could be found. Prussia's name had been mentioned. Holy Rome took it as a sign of how badly the war was going. But, Austria had assured him that the tide would shift.

They were currently camped at Austerlitz, waiting for an opportunity to strike. This was the moment, Austria had assured him, that they would have victory again Napoleon and drive the French pretender out of Vienna.

Holy Rome was practicing his swordplay again while he waited for the battle to start. He drew his sword and tried to balance his stance with it in hand before lunging like he was attacking an enemy. It still felt unnatural, especially the heavy blade in his hand. As he made his second attack against an invisible opponent, he heard the very familiar sound of Austria clearing his throat. It was a sound of a gentleman's impatience. Embarrassed, Holy Rome sheathed his sword and turns towards Austria, who was shaking his head.

His irritation resonated in every note of his voice as he said, "What are you doing that for? You aren't going to be fighting anyone." Before Holy Rome could respond and explain that he did not want to rely on others, Austria continued, "Anyway, it does not matter. France's army is running out of provisions, and he has weakened on his right flank. I am going to attack and I'm going to drive him out." He smiled to himself, as though he was congratulating himself on his patience. Then, he said, "I want you to stay in the center of our troops. You should be safe there. If, for some reason, our ranks break, don't try to stand your ground. You should retreat with our troops. Do you understand?"

Internally, Holy Rome was fuming. He did not want to be treated like a liability. But, he dared not contradict the empire. He already knew that Austria would hear no dissent. Instead, he said, "I will."

Austria nodded and walked away. Holy Rome was left alone to find a horse and ride to the center of the line. He knew what would happen from here; the battle would unfold in front of him, with no need for his intervention. From his small horse, Holy Rome could see Austria's assault on the French flank already starting. Apparently, giving Holy Rome orders had been the last step before the assault started. His heart sank at the idea that he was an afterthought. But, seeing a battle from a distance was better than being shut away in Vienna. This had not been his father's idea for him, but there would be other battles.

But, he felt the wind that had buffeted his back fell to an ominous quiet lull. The yellow and black banner of the Empire, which had been waiving proudly, fell against its pole. Holy Rome turned his gaze back to the French right flank, and to his horror the weak flank seemed to be growing as reinforcements joined it in anticipation of the incoming Austrian attack. Holy Rome's breath caught in his throat. This was a trap and he could do nothing to recall Austria.

His heartbeats grew loud in his own ears. If the open flank was meant as a distraction, then what was France's real goal? The answer came in a growing roar that turned his blood to ice in his veins. Another segment of the French army was bearing down on his own position, even as Holy Rome struggled to comprehend what was happening.

The sound of a bullet flying past his ear finally woke the blonde to the reality of the battle that had descended upon him. The only thought that came to him was that Austria had told him to retreat. Now was not the time for heroics. Holy Rome pulled the reins of his horse tight and nudged the animal to turn away from the flood of soldiers. The horse was slow to react and Holy Rome felt his heartbeat skip as the animal finally jolted forward. Only when the horse reached a gallop did Holy Rome feel a sense of security.

Then, the ground seemed to fall out from under him. Holy Rome did not comprehend the fact that he was falling until his hit the ground and the impact knocked all of the air out of his lungs. He did not push himself back up immediately. He focused for the moment on pulling in a breath. The air tasted foul. Holy Rome's tongue was accosted by earth, blood, and gunpowder. The pain of the fall was something less tangible that faded to a blur on the edge of his awareness.

Holy Rome found the strength to push himself to his feet. Only then did he look at the carnage that lay behind him. The corpse of his horse lay behind him from where it had thrown him. The hole of the musket ball in the creature's flank left little doubt in his mind that this had been intentional. A sinister laugh revealed the origin of the shot.

France lowered the musket that had been at his shoulder. Smoke curled from the end of the barrel. With a careless elegance, France pulled his sword and dropped the musket. Holy Rome struggled for words faced with his enemy. Nothing passed his lips but a sputtering. France spoke instead, "Were you trying to run? Gilbert never would have run. He would have faced me like a man."  
Holy Rome finally managed to say, "What do you want with me?"

He could guess that this was a kidnapping to forcibly strip the title from Austria and give it legitimately to Napoleon. Holy Rome knew that he was little more than chattel to these empires. And yet, a fear, cold and concrete, was seeping into his consciousness. Though he knew it would do little good, the young man pulled his sword from its scabbard.

France let out a short derisive laugh at the sight. Instead of addressing the sword, which he treated as though it was of no consequence, France answered the question, "My emperor is planning a new European order and there is no place in it for two empires." The words sounded strange. Surely, the two titles could be added to Napoleon's titles if he desired them. Holy Rome would have to reside at the French court, but he would endure. France read his confusion in his face and clarified, "You will have to die, and I see no better place than here."

With that France raised his sword. Struck numb by the words, Holy Rome mirrored the movement. If needed to fight to keep his life, he would. He had promised Italy that he would return, and he had to keep that promise. The Frenchman scoffed and, in two swift strikes, knocked the blade aside and struck Holy Rome's hand. The blade cut deep into the flesh and he dropped his own sword.

The Frenchman lowered his own blade so that it was pointed at Holy Rome's chest. The boy felt frozen to the spot by the realization that he could do nothing to save himself. He could run, but that would do nothing. He would not get far without France finding him again. And he would not die like a coward with a sword through his back. The other said, "Just accept this and die with dignity."

The point of the rapier pressed into Holy Rome's flesh and he gritted his teeth against the pain of it. It seemed ridiculous to care about this superficial pain when the sword was about the plunge into his chest. But it still hurt and Holy Rome focused on not whimpering. France's eyes flashed as he pressed the sword the rest of the way through. Curiously, the pain was less once it passed through the skin. Holy Rome could taste blood on his tongue as it welled up from his pierced lung. The feeling in his fingertips was fading, and he could feel his knees weakening as blood poured from the wound and stained his shirt.

France removed the blade. Without the solid piece of metal holding him up, Holy Rome fell to his knees and then fell face first into the mud of the battlefield. The world was blurring as the pain faded to resignation. In his fading sense of consciousness, Holy Rome heard France say, "Goodbye, Holy Rome."

Holy Rome could only see in one direction and in it he saw the imperial banner, torn by French musket fire, lying forgotten in the mud. So, this was what it felt like to fall. It was numb and blurry, not painful. Though this was his end, the only thought that occurred to him was that somewhere there was a girl with a Roman ring and a broken promise.

* * *

Holy Rome's eyes had closed and the sounds of the battle had left. He was conscious, but the effort of keeping his eyes open was now too much. It was cold. Much colder than he ever thought he could be. Then, he felt something unexpected. Two arms on either side of him, pulling him up. He was leaning against someone's chest, and it was warm, comfortable, and familiar. There were words, but he could not make them out. But, the voice was concerned and he felt it resonate through his chest. This was good. He was in the arms of someone safe. He let the warmth of their presence envelope him and hold him firmly to the world.

* * *

The boy awoke like he was rising from the depths of very deep water, leaving everything he had had before behind in the depths. When he opened his eyes, the room was not familiar, but it felt like no room would be. He let out a low groan as he registered the feeling of pain in his chest. The sound caused a figure on the other side of the room to turn towards him.

Red eyes met his own and there was a spark of recognition in the fog of his mind. This man he knew. This one was safe. He recognized the white hair and the red eyes. He spoke the word he associated this person, "Brother." His voice sounded hoarse and strained, but the sound carried. The other's eyes widened and a relieved smile appeared on his face.

He walked over to where the boy was lying and kneeled next to him. The younger tried to remember how he had gotten here or where the wounds came from, but the information was gone. All he knew was that the man next to him was his brother and his name was Gilbert. Trying to find some answers, he asked, "Gilbert, what happened to me?"  
The other's smile fell and he responded, "Do you not remember?"

The boy shook his head and tears began to well in the corners of his eyes. There was something missing, something beyond events, faces, and names that he had lost. Gilbert responded, "Well, that doesn't matter."  
He took his younger brother's hand in his own and said, "All you need to know is that I am your older brother and I am going to protect you from here on out."

Still trying to get some grasp on the situation, the boy asked, "What is my name? I…" His voice failed as he tried to say that he didn't know. His brother pulled him into a very gentle hug. He spoke, "Your name is Ludwig." The name seemed to fit, so he accepted that this was correct. Gilbert continued to speak, "And for now, you're going to stay here and heal. I am going to deal with France. And one day, you're going to be the German empire, just like our father wanted."


End file.
